


Life after death

by kawabiala



Category: Homeland
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, unrequited/unexpressed feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 11:54:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2811092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kawabiala/pseuds/kawabiala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quinn decides to go back to work for Dar Adal. Carrie decides to change his mind.</p><p>(Written before the season 4 finale.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life after death

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eyebrowofdoom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eyebrowofdoom/gifts).



Carrie knew the state Quinn would be in as soon as she opened the door to his apartment. She could smell the booze on the air, the sour scent of trash that hadn’t been taken out for days too long. Quinn was on the floor, leaning back against the front of the couch, as though he’d slid down off it and hadn’t seen a reason to climb back up. Cans and bottles littered the coffee table, the floor around him, even the couch cushions.

“Carrie,” he said with the great care of a man well past drunk. “What a surprise to see you.” His eyebrows, as ironic as she’d ever seen them, gave the lie to his words.

 _I did this,_ she thought, and tried to breathe around what felt like a knife in her chest. Quinn had always, always had her back, and it hurt in unexpected ways to see him in pieces.

“I’ve been worried about you,” she said, in possibly the greatest understatement of the year. She hadn’t laid eyes on him since Islamabad.

“Well, you shouldn’t have been,” he said. “You got what you wanted. I’m alive.” He made a sweeping motion with his arm, vodka sloshing inside the bottle. The gesture indicated the grimy room, the empty bottles on the floor, the desiccated remains of food crusted to the bottom of takeout cartons. It were as though he was saying, _Are you happy now?_

“Yes. I’m fucking overjoyed that you survived,” she said, and meant every word. “So imagine my feelings when I heard that you’ll be going back into the field with Dar Adal.”

Quinn took a swig from the bottle and leaned back against the couch. “Yeah, I knew you’d try to talk me out of it,” he muttered, mouth twisted with something akin to amusement. He didn’t even bother to look back up at her.

Carrie swallowed her anger and impatience at him, at his recklessness, at all the worry and trouble he’d caused her. She tried not to let any of it bleed into her tone.

“You know it’s a bad idea.”

Now he did look back up at her, gaze insolent. “I think I should remind you that you aren’t my CO anymore,” he said, gesturing at her with the bottle before taking another drink.

“No, but I’m your friend.” The word came out harsh, and as soon as she’d spoken she felt a stab of guilt for throwing it in his face, for using it as a weapon.

It was a sign of how far gone he was that she saw him flinch - but he wasn’t pulling his punches either. “You don’t have friends, Carrie,” he said, a bitter twist to his mouth. “You look at other people and all you see are tools.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yeah? Who was the last person you cared about without trying to use them?” He didn’t give her a chance to answer. “Fara came here because of you. You sent Aayan off to die.”

 _Brody,_ she thought. _I sent Brody to his death._ But Quinn was still a better person than her. He didn’t say his name, but oh - he must have been thinking it.

“You string people along, and you use them up until there’s nothing left. That’s what you’re good at.” He gave a mirthless chuckle, saluting her with the bottle. “We were all put here on earth for a reason. Well, I’m good at killing people, and that’s what I’m going back to doing.”

Carrie was suddenly, unaccountably furious; so angry she could barely breathe. “You don’t get to do this,” she hissed. “You don’t get to tell me that I’m a bad person for doing my job, and then turn around and go back to work for black ops. You’re the one who’s been saying that what we do doesn’t justify the consequences. You’re the one who thinks that all we’re doing by assassinating terrorists is making more enemies. Now you’re just going to go back to killing people for a living?”

Quinn was silent for a moment, but then he shook his head. “Who are you trying to fool, Carrie? You live for this shit.”

“That’s because I _can_ live with it,” she said. “You think I’m a heartless bitch? Fine. Maybe you’re right. I can live with being a bad guy, with throwing people’s lives away, because it won’t destroy me. But you - you’ve wanted to leave the agency since 2008.” His head snapped up in surprise, and Carrie smiled grimly. “Your German girlfriend told me.”

He let out an irritated breath, and she knew that for at least one moment he was angry at someone other than her. “Then you should know by now that I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’re going to get yourself killed!” she said. “You’d be dead right now if I hadn’t stopped you from detonating that bomb.”

Quinn’s eyes hardened into real fury. “Do you expect me to _thank_ you for that?” he spat. “Haqqani should be dead. I should be dead, if that’s what it takes to kill him. It would be more than a fair trade, and you’d know that if you were thinking straight.”

 _Dar Adal hasn’t told him anything,_ Carrie realized, _and I can’t tell him now._ His apartment was unsecured, and anyone could be listening in. Her hope of getting through to him died a little more. She had to take a different tack.

“You really think so?” she said. “There’s a reason why the White House wanted us out of Pakistan, and it wasn’t so we could go setting more fires. A CIA agent blowing up Haqqani, dozens of Pakistani soldiers, and who knows how many local supporters - you don’t think that would have made a few new enemies? Given Pakistan a perfect excuse to throw their public support behind the Taliban? Not to mention killing the only potential asset we have inside the top ranks of the ISI. You were right, Quinn - if we go on like this, it is never going to end.”

She broke off, breathing hard, discomfited momentarily by the earnestness of her own words. _Pretty speech_ , she thought, with a certain amount of disgust. _Worthy of a goddamn politician._ When they gave her a new posting and she went back to work, would she still actually believe the things she was saying? Or would she go back to approving air strikes on weddings, if one of the guests was high enough on the Most Wanted list? It didn’t matter. She only had to believe it here and now, for the next few minutes. The only thing that mattered was convincing him - and she could see that her fast talk had him wavering.

She crouched down on her heels in front of him. _Hold eye contact. Body language open and pleading, not threatening. Voice low to create intimacy. Be sincere._

“Your life is worth more than one terrorist’s death. More than killing Haqqani. More than a thousand Taliban fuckers. I’m not going to let you throw it away.”

His head jerked back as though throwing off the spell her words had cast, his anger returning. “You’re not going to _let_ me?” he asked, incredulous. He raised the bottle like a weapon between them, pointing at her for emphasis. “Fuck you, Carrie. You always think you know better than anyone else--”

_Careful, now._

“I’m not going to let you,” she repeated, talking over him. “Just like you didn’t let me bomb Saul and Haqqani when we had the chance. You knew I couldn’t have lived with that. And I know that you aren’t going to be able to live with this.”

He’d stopped talking, the anger gradually draining out of him. Something indefinable had broken open in his expression. For the first time in their confrontation, he looked vulnerable, uncertain. She couldn’t help feeling a rush of satisfaction: she had him hooked.

Carrie reached out to lay a hand on his shoulder - but she’d barely brushed him with her fingertips before he shook her off, flinching away with his whole body. “Don’t,” he said, voice quiet but with a venom in it she’d never heard from him before. “Don’t you fucking try that, Carrie. Not with me.”

Off balance, she fell back, one arm saving herself from falling to the floor. “I wasn’t--” she began, voice weak and her conviction wavering. She _hadn’t_ been aiming at that particular weakness. She wouldn’t. _Or had she?_

He cut her off. “Get out,” he said, voice flat. With his free hand on the arm of the couch, he levered himself up to his feet. Carrie stared up at him from where she’d sprawled on the floor.

“Quinn, _please_ ,” she begged, shaking off her paralysis as he walked unsteadily away from her, toward the bedroom. “Please just listen to me--” she began, and had a moment of hope when he turned sharply back to face her.

“Get OUT!” he roared, one arm rising in a violent gesture toward the front door. It was the hand that held the half-empty bottle. Vodka sprayed across the floor, but he didn’t even seem to notice. He staggered into the bedroom and slammed the door.

Carrie went.


End file.
